


A Masked Ball

by Moonfreckle (Sunfreckle)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: /50s, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Black Widow Montparnasse, Crimes & Criminals, M/M, One Shot, Trans Montparnasse, written for the aesthetic~
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-13 06:13:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17482664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Moonfreckle
Summary: ...With Exposed FacesWhile he walks through the halls, approaching the ballroom, Claquesous is just a part of the crowd. But no one takes in the glamour around them with as cold and calculated an eye as he does.





	A Masked Ball

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the last day of Montsous Week over on tumblr! I borrowed Mardi and Adrian's "black widow Montparnasse" concept for this one...

 

Every single guest at the villa is taking in the glittering splendour of their surroundings, reducing themselves to being just another collection of ornaments to set off the beauty of the rooms as they turn left and right. The warm light all the while glinting off their jewels, their hair, the fabric clinging to their skin, even the ornate masks covering their faces.

While he walks through the halls, approaching the ballroom, Claquesous is just a part of the crowd. But no one takes in the glamour around them with as cold and calculated an eye as he does. Claquesous doesn’t gawk or gape, isn’t fazed by either the glittering lights or the shining marble. He has seen places like this many times before, and he’s always left them worse than he found them.

Even if the crowd would not have moved towards it as one, the music would still have led the way to where the main festivities are taking place. Even though there are plenty of rooms, their doors half ajar, from which equal sounds of enjoyment seem to emerge.

The ballroom, however, is the glorious source of the sweeping melody that pulls every guest’s step into nearly the same rhythm. At least twice a dozen pairs of feet glide across the polished, in-laid floor, some more skilful than others, but all following the same demanding notes. Claquesous can feel it wrap around his throat, pulling his gaze to the throng of dancers, but he doesn’t follow.

Instead, he looks towards the table, laden with the most expensive food Nice has to offer. People are flocking around it like birds, betraying exactly which ones of them are used to such a displays and which ones can’t help but scoff themselves, still enamoured with what bores those that know no better.

Claquesous doesn’t even look at the feast on the table. His eyes are fixed on the orchestrator of all this opulence, or rather, at the trophy by his side.

Montparnasse is as beautiful in a glittering gown as he is in one of his tailored suits, but Claquesous doesn’t like his accessories. Not the heavy diamonds weighing down his slender neck and not the possessive, caviar-stained fingers wrapped around his left wrist. The man – Claquesous knows his name but refuses to remember it – drags Montparnasse’s hand towards him, kissing the pale fingers, and Montparnasse smiles. He smiles with those soft, plump lips, that have been painted a red dark enough to match the wine, and with his eyes wide and coy.

Claquesous stares, glares. Neither of them sees him. Why would they.

It’s very rarely that Claquesous wants to be seen, but he also rarely stands out as little as he does here without even trying. Everywhere around him covered faces, clothes that are nearly costumes, and more than one person whose attire is only pretending to be as fine as that of the person beside them. Claquesous finds one of the genuine ones. A girl wearing a splendorous mix of expensive silk and spoilt boredom. He doesn’t address her, doesn’t bow, he merely looks down into her eyes and holds out his hand. And she takes it.

Dancing is just another trick. Just another balance of blending in and standing out. Claquesous knows how to dance. He’s pulling every unoccupied eye in his direction for a moment and the pliant little thing in his arms preens with gratified vanity. Claquesous is only interested in one pair of eyes, and he displays the girl to the room like a prop, putting her in the spotlight so he can glance up from behind it.

Montparnasse is no longer seated at the table.

The dance ends and Claquesous hands his partner off to another man without a second glance. He turns around, whatever show of satisfaction there might be visible on his face safely hidden behind his mask, and watches how the crowd parts for Montparnasse.

Without a single glance left or right Montparnasse glides towards him, looking absolutely breath-taking in all the wrong ways. His face is obscured by nothing but a fine band of lace, trimmed to perfectly frame his eyes. It’s nothing but show, displaying his features instead of hiding them, flaunting his beauty in the sea of paper, wood and leather faces.

Claquesous can feel his heart pulse with every step he takes, but he doesn’t move. He waits for Montparnasse to come to him, standing unmoving, surrounded by liveliness.

Montparnasse smiles at him, glances at him from under downturned lashes, and offers him a hand in greeting. As if they’ve never met before.

Claquesous takes it, but he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t like Parnasse like this. All glittering softness. Like a creature that’s been dressed in dove’s down for so long it has forgotten it’s a viper underneath.

The orchestra is striking up a waltz, however, and he came all this way for one thing only. Unseen, his lips form a sneeringly courteous smile.

“Would the master of the house feel _very_ slighted if I begged this dance of you?” The voice he speaks in suits the venue, it matches his suit and the gold-stained face he is wearing. It is not his own.

Montparnasse repays him in kind. “I wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want me to be…”

Claquesous bristles with barely hidden disgust, his eyes darting to the man holding court at the head of the table. He’s looking in their direction with an unsmiling, self-satisfied sort of fascination.

Abruptly, roughly, Claquesous takes Montparnasse’s hand and pulls him towards him, one arm wrapping around his waist. If the bastard wants a show he can have one. Montparnasse follows willingly, but Claquesous can just feel the hesitation of surprise in him. It’s only there for an instant though before Montparnasse deliberately presses up against him, carefully hidden triumph sparkling deep in his eyes.

“I always knew you were a dancer.”

Claquesous digs his fingers in Montparnasse’s waist at the sound of his voice, his real voice. No more than a secretive whisper, but _his_ , not the sickeningly demure drawl he used just now. That carefully crafted parody of his own voice that he always uses in places like this.

They dance, Claquesous’ ears nearly deaf to the music and his feet left to find their way through the steps on instinct. All he feels is Montparnasse pressed against him and the anger twisting under his ribs at his own relief.

“You’re supposed to be out by now,” he hisses. It’s his own voice that passes his lips, so close to Montparnasse’s ear that no one else will be able to hear it.

Not a shiver in response from Montparnasse, not even a single shadow on his flawless face. “I know…” he answers dreamily.

For a single moment Claquesous’ certainty wavers and to his dread, Montparnasse feels it. He smiles, the cruel delight of gratified vanity lighting up his eyes. Claquesous might have pulled away from him, but suddenly Montparnasse is pressing against him even closer, resting his head against Claquesous’ shoulder while they turn. It’s still a game, still the persona, but there is a shift in the way his body feels in Claquesous’ arms. No longer quite so easily led, the soft fingers tightening their grip just a little, and his voice— His voice is the voice Claquesous is used to hearing in the dark beside him.

“I was going to kill him last month,” he murmurs, his breath brushing past Claquesous’ neck. “But then he started talking about this party…” He tips his head back far enough to meet Claquesous’ eyes, a deeply gratified shine hidden in their depths. “I wanted to see if you’d come…”

Claquesous’ mouth thins behind his mask.

“And you came,” Montparnasse purrs. “Just for me.”

The music keeps going, their feet keep moving, but Claquesous is barely aware of it anymore. One twist of Montparnasse’s wrists behind his back and he could drag him out of here. Let that rich fuck see just how easy it would be to take away what he thinks is his to command. Maybe he’d even let him chase them, just so he could find Montparnasse with that perfect lipstick smeared all over his pretty face, with marks bitten into his neck and that _fucking_ dress ripped to _shreds_.

Montparnasse smiles into his invisibly contorted face. “Penny for your—”

Claquesous’ right hand moves and he grabs Montparnasse by the back of his neck, driving the glittering diamonds into his skin with his gloved hand and squeezing just hard enough to hurt. Just hard enough to see Montparnasse’s lips part in an involuntary gasp and make his eyes widen with a genuine thrill.

He brings his face close enough to kiss him, the mask nearly their only separation. “You have _one_ week.”

Montparnasse’s throat works as he swallows, making no attempt to break free. “Or what?” he asks, nearly eager and nearly breathless.

“Or I kill him myself.”

The music stops and Claquesous lets go, just as abruptly as he started the dance. Any lesser man would have swayed on his feet, but of course Montparnasse does not. He tips forward though, feigning a last parting movement, and his eyes meet Claquesous’ for a flash of a moment as his lips curl into a real grin. Claquesous can just hear his whispered parting:

“…would you let me watch?”

And without waiting for an answer, Montparnasse flits out of his reach and back into the crowd.

Claquesous retreats, the sound of his footsteps lost in the music, slipping effortlessly between the dancers like the shadow he so often becomes. Just before he slips out the door, he looks up at the table one more time.

Montparnasse’s latest lover is looking at him with the condescending satisfaction of a man that has allowed another a taste of something he can never have. But Montparnasse is sinking back into the seat beside him, cooingly leaning on his arm and reaching up to touch a gentle hand to his face.

As he does so, his lace-framed eyes meet Claquesous’ and his slender fingers brush slowly down his patron’s neck, carefully tracing his jugular.

Under his mask, Claquesous smiles. One week, he repeats in silence as he disappears from their view.

And he will make Parnasse pay for _every_ day he made him wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it <3


End file.
